My depression is a bohemian boy in his twenties.I often think it should have remained a quiet girl, too young to understand why some days she woke up crying. But at one point a metamorphose happened and she grew into a a tired boy with empty smiles, drinking wine from chipped mugs and sang songs about hollow mountains while looking at me with flat brown eyes.
Perhaps he is the sum of all my hopeless romances, a twisted perfection mirrored through spilled coffee and cigarette fog. He lacks the crocked smiles and dimples and his voice is deep and lacks of mercy. He sleeps with my lady Anxiety, who has closed of our tower to anyone but him.
My depression is a bohemian boy in his twenties. Shaggy black hair and stubbles under a tattered six pence. He knocked on my door a few days ago. He’s been sitting by my table ever since. I pour him coffee and he holds me as I cry out for him to please leave, everything was fine. He sings me songs of Isabell and promises me that everything dies, even memories, even him.
My depression is a bohemian boy in his twenties. I wish I could save him. For now I let him sit here and fill the room with the smell of tobacco and old memories.